


Ode To Joy

by rebelwriter6561



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Couch Cuddles, Crowley deserves nice things, Dates, Emotions, Empathy Powers, M/M, citizens of london, interacting with humans, oblivious idiots in love, oblivious seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelwriter6561/pseuds/rebelwriter6561
Summary: Crowley is not nice.





	Ode To Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Good Omens fandom. Last time I was here I was in college, which was long enough ago that there's a distinct possibility that MSheen has read my stuff (*internal screaming*). 
> 
> But I'm back, older, not wiser, and incapable of writing anything short.

It was a good thing he had tissues on hand. Literally on hand, conjured out of thin air like one of Aziraphale's tricks, except without the illusion. Crowley wordlessly passed them over to the angel, who took the handful without taking his eyes off the screen. He wiped at the tears leaking unheeded from his eyes, expression positively radiant. 

"Does it make any difference to you that this was recorded years ago?" Crowley pointed out. On the screen of his heart-stoppingly thin TV, the lucky winner's family streaked over to envelop her in hugs. The woman in question was also crying, obviously overcome with the glory of winning a baking competition. The whole crowd was cheering and clapping, almost excessively in his opinion. He wondered how much they had been coached.

"No, Crowley, look at them!" Aziraphale sniffed and gestured at the screen. "Look how happy she is! She's accomplished so much and come so far, how could you not be happy for her?"

"Easily." Crowley prodded the remote, urging them along to the next season. "It doesn't affect you, personally. It isn't even happening in your vicinity. How can _you_‒" he sent a look through his glasses‒ "get so worked up over it?"

"My dear, please." Aziraphale finished drying his eyes and vanished the tissues in a puff of smoke. "Sharing in other people's joy is simply one of the greatest things humans can be a part of. Haven't you ever been to a football match?"

"What, you have?" Crowley was pulled from the introduction skit to look over at Aziraphale properly. If there was ever anyone he'd never expect at a football game, it was Aziraphale. 

"It's positive energy and emotions!" At Crowley's look, he shifted his face to something more contrite. "For the most part, at least." He brightened again. "But human's higher emotions are practically tangible. Their happiness, their sorrow, their pain and excitement. Surely you must have experienced that."

"Well, yeah. Just not the kind you have." He remembered back to the bloodlust of the Coliseum, the dark corners of castles where he tempted humans to do their worst, the angry and infectious fury of those who would eventually fall. He was well aware of that.

A hand on his wrist startled him. Oh no, Aziraphale had that concerned look on his face, eyes wide with knowledge. "Crowley," he asked gently, "when was the last time you felt happy?"

No. Not going there. "Eating a kebab from the food truck down the way," he deflected with a shrug that shook off Aziraphale's hand. 

"No." Da‒ ble‒ bugger, the angel wasn't letting it go. He was moving closer. "I mean something that has made you truly, genuinely _joyful_. When you couldn't stop feeling it even if you tried. You must…"

Aziraphale's words trailed off. He must have remembered who and _what_ he was talking to. "Not in the slightest, angel," Crowley answered in a cold unfeeling tone of voice. The volume of the TV turned itself louder, signaling an end to the conversation. Reluctantly, Aziraphale pulled away, going back to watching the screen. But Crowley could feel the misery rolling off him.

That was what he felt. He was a demon, literally the worst of the lot- not just in terms of actual supposed demonic activities but the worst at being an actual demon. Aziraphale knew that. He was the cause of all human suffering (or at least only certain religion-related suffering), and he was constantly feeling the aftereffects. Nothing but negative emotions. Not to mention that people were generally never _happy_ when he was around.

Aziraphale, on the other hand…whether it was through some metaphysical connection or simply because he _knew_ him, he could always feel all of Aziraphale’s emotions loud and clear. His happiness, the breathless delight of living without the threat of destruction from Above, the occasional pleasant burn of being stubborn and uppity. They fed that bright warm spark that was lodged under Crowley’s breastbone, the one that surged with every look from the angel. A small, long dormant and guttering flame, always trying to slowly creep back to life. And after millennia of squashing it back, Crowley found himself hoping the blaze would finally consume him, if only so he could stop aching for the warmth.

Even when it reminded him of what he didn't have. 

It was fine. He was satisfied with that. He couldn't go wanting anything else.

~*~

"My dear? I was wondering if you were willing to help me with something?"

Crowley looked over expectantly, chopsticks not stopping their journey to his mouth. An excellent effect of associating with the angel, all his favorite restaurants knew his habits by now. As soon as the pair of them entered Aziraphale's favorite sushi restaurant, the people behind the counter began his order, an unending and delicious array of seafood. Enough to keep them both happy, even while Aziraphale savored each bite and Crowley devoured like it was going out of style.

Aziraphale daintily put his chopsticks down to sip his sake. "There is an auction I'd like to attend this weekend. Several rare first editions are featured; I'd quite like to add them to my collection." His gaze dropped to his cup, then over to Crowley's face. "If you're available, would it trouble you to drive me?"

"If I'm available?" Crowley wanted to press, to find out what his angel thought he was up to, exactly, since the world hadn't ended. He hadn't bothered to fill his appointment calendar past that point, and it wasn't as if those Below were sending jobs anymore. 

"If it's no trouble." Aziraphale's attention was all on him, that little half-smile that would melt the frostiest of hearts. He probably didn't realize he was making it.

"’Course not." Crowley leaned back to flex his legs, already looking for the next course. "Where's it at?"

"Up North a few hours. Should be a lovely drive." Aziraphale sounded delighted, no doubt already imagining the books in his hands. Crowley shook his head in his direction before the next platter arrived before him. It would be nice to get out and drive a while, really let the Bentley open up. And to go for a drive with Aziraphale…really, there was little better than that.

The next weekend, he waited patiently outside the bookshop, watching Aziraphale fumble with his keys and his tin. He already knew the tin would be full of biscuits, in case one of them‒ Aziraphale‒ grew peckish. Any trip longer than across the city, he had to bring a snack. _Someone_ forbid his angel miss a meal.

"Right," Aziraphale said briskly as he joined him in the passenger seat. "I trust you know the way?"

"We're not going to get lost out on the moors, if that's what you're asking." The Bentley soared into motion, guided by a touch of Crowley's fingers on the wheel. Aziraphale tensed, as he always did, but refrained from commenting on the speed. Crowley smirked to himself. He'd learned.

He also knew better than to comment on the music. If the Bentley was going to blast _Bohemian Rhapsody_ as they sped down an exit ramp at one hundred kilometers per hour, Crowley certainly wasn't one to complain. What else was there to do besides sing along? Aziraphale, for his part, merely smiled and hummed along, still too tense to really feel Mercury's power.

One of these days he would get Aziraphale to sing along. It wasn't like he had Heaven breathing down his neck for daring sing something that wasn't a celestial harmony. He _was_ allowed to sing off-key now. In fact, Crowley would welcome it ‒ for a while at least.

They arrived at their destination just as it grew dusky. A large mansion, Edwardian if Crowley had to guess (all those styles were interchangeable to his eye), lit up and welcoming in the evening. He pulled up at the end of the winding drive, where an eager valet waited. Crowley gave him a glare and the Bentley a somewhat deeper glance, reminding it to work properly in someone else's hands. Wouldn't want that boy to discover the tank had been empty for half a century. 

Aziraphale stepped out and straightened his tie, smoothing down the folds of his jacket. Something seemed to occur to him, and he turned to Crowley with his mouth already open in admonishment. Crowley merely gave him a look and adjusted his form.

"I _do_ know how to dress for an occasion, angel." Just because Aziraphale could get away with his antique‒ yet still in fashion, in some circles‒ look all the time didn't mean Crowley had to as well. But he did know when a suit and tie were appropriate, even if the accent colors stayed a rebellious red. Aziraphale's face flashed with a grin and a quiet "oh" at the sight. Crowley smirked and followed him inside.

The interior was just as opulent as the outside, with all the heavy wood accents and shadowed canvases one would expect of a building half-turning to antiquity. It was crowded with well-dressed people, fake smiles on their faces and false pleasantries on their lips. They were there to look good and get what they wanted. That was the point of such things.

Crowley sidestepped into the path of a waiter carrying glasses of champagne and swiftly took two flutes. Turning back to the angel, he found he also had waylaid his own waiter, and also had two flutes, one to drink and one to offer to him. They shared an awkward smile before Crowley swiftly emptied one of the glasses with a hearty gulp.

Aziraphale drank as well, much more slowly, before they both discarded the spare glasses. "I hope no one saw that," Aziraphale murdered, staying by Crowley's side as they maneuvered into the room. "That's hardly done in good company."

"This isn't good company, angel." Already he could sense stirrings of lust being sent in various directions, the sticky touches of greed lingering on various pieces of art on display. These humans were no better than any other ‒ worse, if you asked certain other people. They'd both spent enough time in the company of people like these, yet Aziraphale was always ready to give them the benefit of the doubt. Came with the job.

The angel himself was a pool of serenity in a turbulent emotional waterfall. Crowley basked in it. He felt nothing but pleasant anticipation from him, the quiet thrill of competition over the manuscripts he wanted. Never mind he could miracle them into his own hands, or that he would certainly outlive whoever bought them. It was the same reasoning he used in the bookshop. It wasn't sporting if he didn't give anyone else a chance.

"Mister Fell!" Crowley turned towards the booming voice, and so did Aziraphale after he remembered it was him the voice was referring to. Crowley watched the older gentlemen who stormed up and seized Aziraphale's hand, shaking it vigorously. "Should have known you'd be here. Still looking after my Chaucer well for me?"

"I'm afraid the _Canterbury Tales_ are still not for sale, no matter your offer." Aziraphale's smile looked sickly, and his hand, in the tight grip, was only weakly shaking back. Crowley felt indignation swelling in his chest, but managed a smile when the gentleman turned his way. A very pointed smile. 

"This is Anthony Crowley," Aziraphale introduced him, giving him an awkward look. "My, er‒" 

"I'm his secretary," Crowley easily lied, squeezing the other man's hand tightly. A little too tightly. The man winced, but didn't take the hint.

"So you're the one I should butter up, ey, to get our man here to loosen the purse strings." His affect was a little too forced, too dramatic with the conspiratorial wink. Crowley didn't return it.

"I'm lactose intolerant,” he shot down. That threw the other man off, verbally stumbling just enough for Aziraphale begin one of his classic ramblings that wouldn't let him have a word in edgewise. Crowley hung back, enjoying his drink. He wasn't interested in stepping in and reining back the angel.

After an awkwardly appropriate amount of time, the other man made his escape from having his ear talked up. Crowley stepped up against Aziraphale's side as he left, seeing the self-satisfied smile on his face.

"That's the one you told me about, isn't it?" Crowley asked under his breath. Aziraphale's face dropped with a restrained sigh. "Can't imagine a prick like that giving a damn about your _Tales_." It must be noted that Aziraphale's copy had been personally handed over by Chaucer himself, so he could proofread the thing. Crowley remembered those days, the time he had spent in Aziraphale's barely-furnished hovel, laughing his ass off at the angel's careful hesitant way of reading the dirty jokes. He wouldn't give that thing up for anything.

"Well…" Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders, turning away the conversation. "I'm sorry, my dear, I didn't think that this would be rather boring for you."

"Boring?"

"Well, yes." His fingers were playing with the stem of his glass, twisting it around and around. "It is rather stuffy here, nothing that would really interest you‒" 

"Angel. I honestly don't care." Crowley met Aziraphale's eye when he glanced up to confirm his words. "Sure, I wouldn't choose this over a lovely night of binge-watching, but‒" Crowley lit up when he spotted another waiter. "Where else would I get some tiny delicacies, ey?"

"Oh." Aziraphale seemed to deflate, his usual smile coming back as he followed Crowley to the offered tray. Crowley restrained his greed and only took two of the tiny pastries, which he vaguely recognized from that baking show that was Aziraphale's favorite. He politely passed one off to him, watching the angel's face light up as he sampled it.

"Splendid," he declared, using a careful finger to brush crumbs from his lips. "You don't get that kind of care with mass produced sweets, you know?"

"And yet I've never seen you turn away an iced bun, no matter how it was baked," Crowley replied, eating his in one bite. Honestly, he couldn't taste anything more special about these nibbles, but that was something Aziraphale was discerning about so he'd go along with it.

They began an amiable wander through the mansion, taking in the displays that were left. Most of the art and decor was being auctioned off, but what was left was certainly magnificent. Even if Crowley wasn't as appreciative as he could be (there was a reason he slept through much of that time period) it was worth being able to stroll around with Aziraphale. His face was a treat to watch, every thought and mood passing over it in turn. He'd never tire of it. 

Midway down another room, there was a large tapestry they both stopped at. Crowley let his eyes trail over the characters depicted in fine stitching, trying to follow the story portrayed, idly wishing there were more waiters about ‒ he could use another morsel. He knew Aziraphale would need at least another five minutes to coo over it. 

"Magnificent work, isn't it?" Crowley tensed when a thin young man sidled up next to him, so close he had to tuck his glass closer to his body to keep it out of the way. "You know something of this scale would have taken months to complete back in the day."

The man _reeked_. It was as if he had doused himself entirely in cologne. Crowley stopped breathing entirely, but it was already in his nose, coating the back of his throat. A pounding began in his temples, and he was certain it wasn't because of the oxygen he was denying himself. How could anyone believe a smell like _that_ was at all tempting? 

The offensive odor wasn't slowing the man down. Unprompted by Crowley, he was rambling on, spewing the most basic information to someone who hadn't just lived through that period, but who had spent most of their time with the weavers (they had the best gossip). It was entirely aggravating, not helped the least by the…looks he was sending Crowley's body. The way his eyes lingered at his hips and ass. It was enough to make his entire nervous system recoil.

Crowley tried to fend him off with an uninterested vague look, but that was no use. The human species had a million ways to say they weren't interested, and this man was deaf to them all. His looks were becoming pointed, his fingers on his own glass twitching in Crowley's direction like he wanted to touch, to claim‒ Crowley was about to say or do something to make his feelings rather clear when he felt a hand on his elbow.

Thank the stars, the angel had taken hold of his arm, almost casually, like a proper gentleman. Pulling Crowley closer and angling him away, ostensibly so Aziraphale could face the intruder better, a dim smile on his face like he was actually interested in the tapestry's history. The hand stayed on his arm, possessive but soft. Crowley covered his gleeful smirk with a sip of his drink. Less enjoyable without use of his respiratory system, but good enough.

The point was eventually made. After a few more pointless comments, the other man stalked away to hassle a pair of young women taking a selfie with a nude statue. Aziraphale quickly pulled him away, on to the next painting, and Crowley let himself breathe again. "Bit much, wasn't he?" he grumbled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. His other arm was still caught in Aziraphale's embrace.

"Young man like that will certainly get himself in trouble eventually," Aziraphale muttered darkly to himself. Crowley found himself hoping it would be so, but most of his focus was entirely on the hand still on his arm. Aziraphale wasn't gripping him tightly or anything, rather just resting his hand in the crook of his elbow, gentle yet firm. Not intimate in any way, not overly untoward. But…

Crowley couldn't bring himself to take his hand from his pocket, to dislodge Aziraphale's hand and…perhaps do something else. The guiding hand led him from room to room, pausing to admire whatever piece of art caught its owner's attention. They were certainly closer this way, shoulders and arms occasionally brushing as they moved along. Familiar in a way they'd never been before, even after years of closeness. He couldn't bring himself to pull away, not in a million years.

Eventually they found themselves in the showing room, where the auction items were laid out. Crowley let himself be dragged over to the books Aziraphale was after, catching his quiet inhale of delight. Even he had to be impressed. Enough residual knowledge had rubbed off over time and he knew enough to recognize the quality. Aziraphale would eat them up.

A few steps away, the auction hostess sat heavily in her chair. Judging from the greedy cloud that covered her younger relatives, the auction would be going more to their pockets, not hers, and she knew it. Ever the gentleman, Aziraphale stopped to give her a short bow, so of course Crowley had to one-up him by sweeping in and kissing her hand.

"This has been a lovely evening," Aziraphale told her graciously. "You have my word that your books will be well cared for in my possession."

"Confident, aren't you?" Her voice was as old and creaky as she was, but Crowley could hear a touch of mirth in her tone.

"Confidence is all you need to auctions like this," Aziraphale said smugly. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"A heavy wallet helps a lot more, angel. Excuse us." He nodded politely in her direction and led Aziraphale away. One of her descendants gave him a snooty look, which he returned. It would be terrible if something happened to him and his piece of the fortune.

Aziraphale traded their empty glasses for the auction pamphlets and their numbers, and they found their seats. Crowley scanned the items and the crowd, trying to guess who would bid on what. The people front and center, with the most uncertain air around them, they'd be going for the more expensive pieces. Crowley grinned to himself and leaned towards Aziraphale.

"How much trouble will I be in if I jack up the prices on these people?"

The disapproving look sent his way was the answer. "I suspected you'd do something like that," Aziraphale murmured, idly flipping the number paddle through his fingers. "Just don't be nasty about it."

"These people deserve some nasty and you know it." Crowley stretched his back, spotting the rival book collector across the room. "Isn't there some part in the Bible that says something about how hoarding wealth is bad? The lad never had two coins to rub together, but these people believe he'd be on their side. Ridiculous."

"As much as I love discussing humans and their fallacies with you, I don't think now is the time." Crowley grinned at the stiffness in his tone.  
"You're just thinking about those books, aren't you?" A rather longing sigh confirmed it. "You know we could just take off with the books, make it so no one knows the difference."

"_I_ would," Aziraphale said harshly. "That's _not_ how this is done."

Well, that was a few feathers ruffled. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was all uptight about it because he'd been considering it. Who knew, if the auction didn't go his way, he might still try it.

Or rather, he wouldn't speak up when Crowley tried it.

Crowley idled patiently through the beginning of the auction, not bothering to pretend to be interested with the proceedings. He only perked up when Aziraphale did, when the first book came up. _That_ was the one he wanted. He felt an answering surge of _want_ from the other bibliophile. The angel didn’t waste any time, snapping his card up over and over again in response to the ever-increasing numbers. His drive was radiating outward from his core, steady and firm. Unshakable. But so was his rival's. 

Crowley leaned close to Aziraphale again. "How much of a point are you trying to make here?" he whispered in his ear.

"The right one," Aziraphale answered, mouth tight and eyes steely focused. Crowley smirked and leaned back, throwing his arm in the air almost lazily.

"One million."

There was a murmur from the crowd, an offended huff from the other end of the room, and a "really, dear?" from the angel at his side. Crowley grinned cheekily, not even sparing a glance over, as the auctioneer shakily confirmed his offer and asked for any others. Unsurprisingly, there were none.

Aziraphale gaped at him once the gavel came down. "That was _quite_ unnecessary, Crowley," he said sternly. "Not the point I was trying to make at all."

"Not about the money, right?" Crowley found the frowning face across the room and gave him the smuggest of smirks. "It's about what you can do to get what you want." He was right, and he knew it. The disapproving look on Aziraphale's face was fighting a smile, his happiness over the book obvious. He could never be mad when Crowley did what he wanted.

Finally, he sighed, and smiled, and laid a gentle hand on Crowley's arm, squeezing gently. "I'll pay you back."

"It's nothing, angel." If he leaned over right now, he could bury his face in those soft curls. That would be enough payment for him.

~*~

"Remember how nice it was to be able to walk anywhere without being shouted at?" Crowley growled bitterly. There was a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, listening to a rather fervent man hurling words and spittle over their heads. And they were blocking their path. Honestly, anyone who stood around blocking foot traffic deserved the worst from Below, no matter what other sins had priority.

Aziraphale's hum agreed with him, even though by all rights he shouldn't. That was a man of the cloth doing the shouting, after all. Classic preaching to the masses. "Never have I seen a single soul change direction from a street sermon," the angel replied, ignoring Crowley's sideways glance. Or maybe he didn't catch it. 

Crowley took the lead, barging through the assembled group. This close, the preacher man's voice was driving in his ears. Crowley tried to block it out, but it was relentless. 

"This city is awash in sin, those who commit the grievest of all walk among you, unheeded, unpunished. The wrath of Hell will not come soon enough for the likes of them‒" As if that was anything new. 

Crowley reached the far end of the crowd, escaping onto empty pavement and sighing in relief. "Wonder what‒" he started, turning, and then realized the angel wasn't behind him. "Aziraphale?"

There, in the depths of the crowd, a flash of blonde. Crowley shoved his way back, ignoring the angry looks. He grabbed Aziraphale by the coat. "Come on, angel, thought you were done getting lectured by the holier-than-thous‒"

Aziraphale _flinched_, like someone had just _yanked_ on his feathers. “Crowley.” He sounded _heartbroken_, in the worst way. "Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Crowley focused, bypassing the spongy agreement of the crowd until he got a whiff of the overzealous man's aura. What he felt almost had him physically recoiling away. “Oh.”

“I…”Aziraphale found his wrist and squeezed. “I know we’re not exactly ‘on the clock’ anymore, but‒” 

“This hardly counts as a good deed." Something very terrible was happening to the speaker's intestines. He stopped, coughed, started again, before doubling over with a cry of pain. Crowley pinned him with his stare, letting him feel it, letting him _suffer_ the way so many had before. Because of him. People were rushing to his aid, but they recoiled back with cries of disgust. Probably because of the boils rising to his skin. Marking him as filth.

"That's enough, my dear." Aziraphale's hand, still on his wrist, squeezed again. 

"Don't want to let him off easy," Crowley spoke through gritted teeth. There was plenty more where that came from, that was the only thing he really agreed with from Below anymore, but then Crowley wouldn't get to enjoy it.

"He won't." Crowley could feel the certainty in Aziraphale's voice, and felt the touch of some kind of miracle as it blurred away to expose the man in some other way. Crowley let up. The sinful man was whimpering, crying, like he deserved sympathy. He may be thinking it was over, but no. Not if the wrath he could feel in the angel had anything to say about it.

Wordlessly, they pushed their way out of the crowd. Crowley tried not to linger on the self-satisfied feeling in his chest, or the way Aziraphale was still holding his wrist, or how it had felt so right for it to be there.

~*~

The door was locked and the sign flipped to "Closed", but that had never stopped him before. Crowley stepped into the bookshop and was immediately met with an unfamiliar sight and cloud of dust in the air. "Aziraphale?" he called, voice rasping slightly. No answer. The bookshelves closest to him were oddly bare, the usual stacks of books nowhere to be seen. Something uneasy slid down his spine. "Angel?"

Aziraphale abruptly stuck his head around the shelf. "Oh, hello Crowley," he greeted, the smile just enough to drive the concern away. "Would you be able to lend me a hand?"

"What are you up to?" Crowley asked as he stepped to Aziraphale's side. The angel immediately dumped a stack of books into his arms. "Little redecorating?" he asked in a pained wheeze.

"Yes. I thought it was time." Aziraphale added more books to his arms. "I'd like those windows to have a little more sunlight, but I don't want any of these books to fade."

Crowley thought about arguing that he was _sure_ he didn't have to worry about that, but he stopped himself. True, Aziraphale's bookshop had the usual aura of any old bookshop, but it also had Aziraphale's protection, added over years and years of care. And he'd once thought that'd be enough to handle any mild catastrophe that could befall the shop, but…

But Crowley could still smell it sometimes, the burning wood and paper. The sick acrid taste in the back of his throat. Not the blazing flames of Hell, but harsh and black, destroying the most important place in the world for Aziraphale. Even all his love and protection hadn't been enough. 

Things had been rather muddled, those last few days before the end of the world, he mused as he carried the books to their new resting place. He'd been lax, overwhelmed, and perhaps so had Aziraphale. He'd been trying to save the whole world, after all. Crowley had…well, he'd been trying to save them both. And somehow it had worked out.

Before Aziraphale could load him up with more books, he shed his jacket, rolling up his sleeves. "What's your plan for the space then?"

"I was thinking," Aziraphale paused, glancing at him and then towards the window, fingers tapping on one of the books. "A sofa would go nicely there. Somewhere for customers to sit and have a nice place to read."

"Really?" Crowley stepped closer to consider the space. "You'd actually rather have customers sitting around reading your books?"

"If they read them here they wouldn't have to take them home." The angel's logic was...interesting. He knocked his hand against the nearly empty shelf. "It'll be delivered soon, so we really have to scoot." 

"Where do you come up with anything you say?" Crowley knew it was pointless to ask, and busied himself take down more books, so he didn't have to see that insufferable smile Aziraphale sent him.

The delivery men were on time, which was almost a miracle in and of itself. While Aziraphale busied himself making friends with the movers, Crowley actually got to work helping them move the couch in, if only to keep the floors from being scuffed. Then he wouldn't have to hear Aziraphale tutting over the marks for the next half century. 

That thought almost made him drop the sofa on his foot. He didn't know if they had fifty years ‒ for Someone's sake, he didn't even know if they had one year, or a day or _anything_ ‒ and yet somehow his mind was expecting him to still stick around with the angel. Because they had already gone through one never-ending of the world, one occasion of being dragged away to their destruction, and the idea of not being around the angel, as much as he could, in whatever time they had left made him feel cold inside.

So what if he was setting himself up for more years of not getting what he wanted from the angel? That had never stopped him before.

"There," Aziraphale said happily, once the movers were gone, surveying his new furniture. It seemed to have spontaneously spawned several pillows and a soft-looking throw on its own. "Doesn't that look cozy?"

It did. Perfectly fit between two selves, a photogenic sunbeam lingering on the seats. Crowley had to try it for himself. He slithered onto the cushions, propping his feet up on the end and smirking up at the angel. "Very comfortable,” he drawled, rubbing his shoulders back onto a pillow. “If you're not careful, I'm going to be taking up residence here," he jokingly warned.

"That'd be just perfect, actually," Aziraphale answered. Just like that, like it was perfectly obvious. "Better than having you standing around lurking." Before Crowley could connect his brain with his mouth again, so he could say _something_, Aziraphale leaned over him so he could pull the curtain higher. "Lovely sunshine. Is that alright?"

"It’s fine," Crowley rasped. This close, in the warmth of the sunlight, he could smell the familiar aroma lingering on Aziraphale's waistcoat, practically feel his happiness brushing against his. Too close. Crowley scrambled to his feet as soon as Aziraphale pulled back. "What do you think about lunch?" he asked stiffly.

"I think we could go to that lovely Turkish place again." Aziraphale didn't seem put off by the abrupt change in topic. Crowley was secretly relieved, and was also happy to hear the suggestion. That restaurant was right near his favorite nursery- he could always use more plants. "And while we're there, you can give me some advice. I know there's that plant seller nearby, you can suggest some lovely plants for the window.”

It was like he could read his mind. Crowley stared at the angel, trying to detect if he was being serious or if he was teasing. No sign of the sneaky grin, just open and honest as always. "Alright," Crowley agreed. "I'll find something even _you_ can't kill."

Aziraphale scoffed at him as they headed out the door. "I'd like to remind you that I _was_ a gardener."

"And I was a nanny, but you don't see me rushing out to adopt." The Bentley started itself with a snap of his fingers. "Believe me, angel, house plants and garden plants are completely different. Have very different care needs."

Aziraphale smiled at him as he buckled his seatbelt. "I would be happy to follow any words of wisdom you're willing to impart," he said, rather than continuing to argue for argument's sake. Crowley swallowed, wondering if there something he missed, before the smile morphed into Aziraphale's particular sneaky smile. "Or you could just care for them. Perhaps that would be better, because you know _so much_ about plants."

Crowley had a feeling there was another meaning to the angel's words, but he couldn't parse them out. "Right, fine," he agreed, and floored the Bentley before Aziraphale could get another word in. If he kept talking, who knew where they would end up?

~*~

He could sense it as soon as the girl stepped into the shop. It was that particular air of melancholy, of discomfort, that brand of tiredness that came with keeping up a lie, day in and day out. Even the deep bracing inhale was held back, not quite accepting what they had come across. She still felt she wasn’t safe. Not yet.

Aziraphale could sense all that as well. Crowley could hear his voice change from disgruntled second-hand bookseller to trustworthy uncle, gently asking what he could help her find. She brushed him off, not able to say it out loud, even to a friendly stranger, but Crowley kept an eye on her as she strayed into the shelves. The books she was looking for found her far easier than she normally would have. They had shifted their position in the shop so she wouldn’t have to search far. She had come far enough.

Crowley cast a quick glance to Aziraphale from his comfortable spot on the sofa, meeting his eye and agreeing with what he saw. All that talk of patron saints of anything was nothing without action. The angel wasn’t just a figurehead. Wasn’t the guardian of lost humans just for lip service. 

Even as the girl browsed, Crowley felt her warming to the shop and its atmosphere. Nearly smothering, but welcoming, asking her to linger there. Safety in a world that wasn’t happy with what she was. Crowley could easily imagine the fights in her household, over her too-long hair and the wrong type of trousers. As if that were any of their business. He felt himself getting angry on her behalf, even as he felt the small starburst of happiness when she found exactly the book she needed. The bookshop was good at that.

Aziraphale didn’t even put up the usual fuss he made when she brought the book to the counter. He was the perfect gentleman, quietly asking the right probing questions under the guise of small talk. She opened up to him, because it was Aziraphale. Anyone would. Crowley could sense the tension leaving bit by bit, the barriers coming down. He tried to keep his face blank. He should be annoyed, because she was delaying their lunch break, but he couldn't bring himself to be mad.

Any ease Aziraphale and the shop were able to instill in the girl were shattered when her mobile rang shrilly. She jumped so hard it may as well been a gunshot. Crowley listened to her fumbling excuses as she answered, the lies coming automatically as she spoke to whoever was on the other end, hidden panic under her voice. Craning his neck, he focused out the window, searching down the street. Ah. There they were.

When she moved to pass him on her way out the door Crowley shot a hand out, stopping her in her tracks. “Not yet,” he advised, eyes pinning the figures down the street. “Two older ladies with knock-off purses?”

He could hear the girl swallow. “Yes,” she whispered softly, eyes fixed on them over his shoulder. Of course. Crowley flexed his jaw to keep the anger out of his voice.

“When you leave, take a right and head down the street,” he advised. “Halfway down the block turn and come back. Then you’ll meet them further down, not like you’re just leaving here.”

“Here.” Aziraphale appeared at her elbow, plucking the book from her grasp. He swiftly swapped the dusk jacket for another, less conspicuous book. “If you ever need anything else, anything at all, feel free to come back. It would be our pleasure to have again.”

Crowley avoided her eyes, the grateful looks she directed towards them. It just didn’t feel right.

“Now,” Crowley urged, dropping his hand. The two ladies had turned their backs, watching some commotion further up the street. Nothing serious, just an Uber driver arguing with a pedestrian, a series of ordinary events that occured with no outside influence. The girl slipped out the door, turning and heading the opposite direction, just like he had directed. 

The angel joined him on the cushions, watching out the window with sad eyes as the older ladies eventually turned and headed their way. His hand, like it was perfectly natural, settled on Crowley's knee. “I slipped her one of the brochures of that outreach groups,” he said mournfully, eyes darting to the other window where their newest charge was no doubt passing again to meet up with her relatives. “I do hope she’ll be okay.”

Crowley nodded, trying not to think about the hand. “She’ll be fine,” he said, more of an order than a hope. He could feel her mood sour as the two parties met, the soft blow on her soul at hearing the wrong name in their mouths. “She’s strong.” She would have to be. 

The party moved further down the street. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s blessing follow after her. It may have just been through the physical connection, but Crowley felt it was stronger than most. Aziraphale sighed. “Seems so wrong that such a thing still matters so much,” he mused. “They can’t just let her be happy.” 

Crowley thought about saying something, pushing their conversation into a _discussion_, nearly an _argument_, but kept his mouth shut. He knew a thing or two about hiding, and so did Aziraphale.

~*~

“Here.” Crowley couldn’t fight his grin as he extended a rather threadbare hoodie in Aziraphale’s direction. “Definitely your style.”

Aziraphale gave the garment a withering look. “I’d rather be naked,” he sniffed primly.

“I’d rather you be naked as well,” Crowley retorted. As a joke. He hung the hoodie back up and returned to rifling through the rest of the shirts. Most he didn’t spare a glance, which was expected from a second-hand shop's collection, but there was some potential. Less than in the women’s section, but he would get there in time.

Aziraphale was at his back, head tilted at the right angle to swiftly scan the bookshelves of less-than-pristine books. As he if he really thought it was possible to find a first edition hiding amongst the selection, or something that was worth fixing up and then reselling. Crowley knew his secrets ‒ he sniffed and hemmed and hawed about selling books, but the ones he did sell were always duplicates of ones he already had, that he could spare to those who did want them. Because he wasn’t _that_ much of a selfish bastard.

Crowley swiftly gave up on the men's section ‒ honestly, what did he expect? ‒ and moved on to the women's. More options there, for a start, and a better chance of finding something to fit his proportions. If there was anything he'd change about modern times, men's fashions would be at the top of the list.

Aziraphale wandered over with him, two books tightly clamped under his arm. He seemed to scrutinize the racks as well. "What about something like this?" he asked as held out a very slinky sort of shirt. In a _very_ fetching cut. Crowley liked the shape and sparkle, but turned up his nose anyway. 

"Too much color."

"Well, not everything can be black or red, dear." Aziraphale returned the shirt to the rack, running his fingers over the fabric. "You _could_ always work with a designer, you know," he pointed out. "Get something made for you, specifically, then you wouldn't have to go hunting secondhand."

"That's not fun, angel." Crowley found a black lace see-through top that seemed in pretty good shape and laid it over his arm. "Its like you and auctions. The thrill of the find, and all that." And if he bought all his own clothes, he wouldn't have to deal with someone else's hands on him, sizing him up. "And don't suggest I go to your tailor again, I don't want to come out looking like you."

Aziraphale gave him _quite_ the look, the one that Crowley privately referred to as the "bastard" look. This variation looked shifty and calculating, and Crowley immediately wondered if he'd crossed the line. Without breaking eye contact, the angel reached into the racks and pulled out a jumper. Wordlessly, he turned it so Crowley could see the front.

“Oh _no_!” Crowley winced at the sight. It was _shamelessly_ tacky, some sort of stiched design of kittens with too large eyes, a smattering of sequins, and needless bows tacked into the knit. A denizen of Hell would be cited for excessive cruelty if they wore such a thing in the torture chambers. “Don’t you dare.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Aziraphale said with the thinnest smile and a too-innocent tone. “Perhaps something to wear around the shop on a day off…”

“Please don't. I won't be able to associate myself with you if you do." Crowley turned away, not wanting to pain his eyes with the sight any longer. Something that ugly deserved a mercy killing, there was no doubt about that.

A sudden soft pressure at his back made him turn his head again. Aziraphale was closer, his hand resting gently and rubbing lightly against the fabric of his jacket. "I really wouldn't do anything to chase you off." He actually sounded worried, as if that were a real possibility. "You know that, right?"

Of course he knew it. That was a solid truth that was lodged somewhere around his shoulderblades, as rooted as his wings. He wouldn't, because then he wouldn't be Aziraphale, and then there wouldn't be any truth to be had. "Give yourself some credit, angel," Crowley grumbled, hiding behind his glasses. "Not even your taste is that bad."

Aziraphale's grin seemed relieved, once he realized it was only a joke. "It does seem more like something one of your lot would wear," he said, glancing at the jumper again and shuddering. "A particularly nasty grandmother demon. Pokes people with red hot knitting needles."

"As if any of them have the kind of imagination to pull that off." Crowley continued flipping through the rack. He'd bring the clothes home to try on, without the withering stare of the shop lady judging him back to Hell. Whatever didn't fit, it he didn't like, would be discarded in various places around London. Someone who really needed the clothes would find them.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s delighted noise caught Crowley’s attention. He was holding up a dangly necklace, glittering in the low light. It was sparkly and silver and adorned with a snake head. 

Crowley lit up instantly. "Let's see," he said, reaching a hand over.

Rather than just handing it over, Aziraphale stepped closer again, undoing the clasp as he did. Crowley stayed frozen as Aziraphale passed it around his neck, his hands making soft contact with the back of his neck as he redid the clasp. "Is this alright?" he asked, as if there was the slightest chance of him over doing the wrong thing.

"Fine," Crowley breathed, fighting the urge to reach out for the angel's emotions and twist around them like the snake he was. Aziraphale stepped back, letting his hands trail down the length of the chain. It was long, like the style from the old days, the pendent at the end hitting his middle. 

"Certainly eye-catching," Aziraphale commented, his eyes somehow brighter in the dim light of the shop. Crowley realize he was staring and glanced down, taking in the view of his new accessory. He swung his hips back and forth to make it swing. Aziraphale coughed, averting his eyes. "It really suits you."

Crowley grinned cheekily at him as the angel stepped back in to take the necklace off. "It's really hard to go wrong where there's snakes involved." He offered an exaggerated wink through his glasses at the angel's withering look.

"That is a whole theological argument right there that we are _not_ getting into right now." He walked away, with the necklace, with every seeming intention to buy it himself. Crowley couldn't help but feel something had gone rather right for once.

~*~

"Have you thought about taking up a hobby?"

Crowley pulled his gaze from his phone, raising his head to look over towards Aziraphale. "Hng?"

"A hobby!" The angel said brightly. "You know, something fun and productive, to keep you busy."

Crowley snorted at the idea. "I don't need anything to keep me busy." What was Aziraphale expecting, him to take up knitting or competitive tropical fish breeding? He was perfectly happy with his plants and whatever amusement he could find on his phone.

"You really should pick up something, dear." Aziraphale appeared focused on stacking books on his desk, but the glances he kept sending in Crowley's direction were revealing enough. "Assuming Heaven and Hell leave well enough alone, we will have a bit of time left here on Earth. You'll want something to pass the time."

Crowley knew exactly how he wanted to spend that time. But he couldn't say that. "I've managed six thousand years without a hobby before," he pointed out. "I didn't spend _all_ my time tempting and being a nuisance, you know?"

"Yes, and now you don't need to. You're effectively out of a job," Aziraphale pointed out, as if it were something as simple as retiring, rather than rebelling to the point of being cast out, _again_. "What did you used to do to pass the time?"

"Slept, mostly. Hung around with creative types." Crowley caught Aziraphale's look. "Just for social reasons. Not my fault if they picked up on any of my influence."

Aziraphale's smile was stupidly fond. "You haven't done so for the past century, at least." Before Crowley could open his mouth and argue that the creative scenes had shifted so much that it was no longer _fun_ (and since when had Aziraphale become attuned to his social calendar?) Aziraphale sighed, turning his eyes down towards his books.

"You really have to wonder what's going to be coming next," he said, a melancholy tone in his voice. "Great ineffable plans and all. And whatever comes next. But if there's no plan, then it feels like this was all such a waste. Why even go through all the trouble in the first place‒"

In a heartbeat Crowley was out of his seat, crowding into Aziraphale's space. One hand flattened over his mouth, the other seized his arm and squeezed, hard. "Don't," he hissed, furiously, useless heart lodged somewhere in his throat. "Don't go asking questions like that, angel." 

Aziraphale's wide blue eyes met his, something brimming in their depths. 

"Questions like that are what made me Fall," Crowley whispered hoarsely. Something burned, deep down, remembering that, and imagining Aziraphale‒ no. No. Not his angel. Not Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale reached up and took his hand, gently threading their fingers together. He moved it from his mouth, but not far, not far at all, pressing Crowley's hand to his smooth cheek. "I never really much liked that," he said softly, eyes dropping from Crowley's face. "That you should Fall for asking questions. I've been questioning for so long. I gave a great flaming sword to the humans. I've even stood against the great ineffable plan…but I'm still here." He sounded sad about that. "I still haven't Fallen. I just don't understand why."

It was very hard to breathe. "You'd be rubbish as a demon." Crowley tried to joke, but it was like a knife in his chest, thinking of Aziraphale's form and self in the deepest pits of Hell, how swiftly he would crumple under the weight. There would really be nothing right in all the universe if that were to happen.

"And you'd be miserable, if you had stayed in Heaven." Aziraphale sounded regretful, voice heavy as his thumb rubbed against his hand. Crowley _ached_, imagining never Falling. That's all he should ever want, but…

If he hadn't Fallen, he wouldn't be standing in a bookshop in SoHo, surrounded by the smell of books and Aziraphale's soft misery. G‒ S‒ Someone, how did that even feel comforting, except that it was Aziraphale and Crowley was so attuned, so used to him, that even his presence was enough. How was that even possible? 

Aziraphale swallowed, raising his eyes to look back up at Crowley. "Well then," he said in a voice that only trembled a little, "barring some world-ending disaster or the sun exploding, we do have some time on our hands. Plenty of time to pick something up."

Crowley knew when the moment was over. He stepped away with regret, letting his fingers separate from Aziraphale's. "All right," he conceded. "I'll figure something out. 

~*~

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale looked flustered as he came around the corner into the main space, eyes darting from Crowley to the back of the shop. “There’s a, er, fellow, in the loo, who’s been there for some time, can you…”

“Yeah, alright.” Crowley was already off the sofa and heading that direction. “I’m on it.”

The bathroom was tucked off the end of a long dark hallway. Crowley gave the door a courtesy tap, but when he had no response, he bypassed the lock and opened the door. 

As he expected, the young man inside was slumped to the floor, eyes glassy and unfocused with spittle around his lips. Crowley crouched next to him, taking hold of his wrist and thinking away the distress his body was under. “Easy,” he said softly as the other man stirred. "Easy, mate. Just let it pass."

The sharp was on the floor next to him. Crowley moved it aside and took a seat, keeping hold of his wrist. It was lucky the shop knew better than to let itself be grimy, otherwise the loo floor would be far worse, given that Aziraphale never cleaned. Crowley leaned back against the cold wall and waited, feeling the younger man collect himself. Roiling emotions pushed through him, back and forth, not dulled in the slightest. Fear, and hurt, and dismay and disappointment slowly seeping in. It was always like that.

"This really is the lowest, isn't it?" Crowley asked. No judgement in his voice. The other man laughed, bitterly. 

"Yeah, this is a new low for me." It wasn't, but going by what Crowley could feel, he didn't remember much of that. He could read the sins on the young man's arm still held in his grasp, every mistake and opportunity that had led him to where he was. The thin, cold skin under his fingers, and his heart, still beating away. Relentless. 

"Nowhere to go but up." Crowley put enough false cheer in his voice to make the other man snort. 

"I've tried, you know." Crowley nodded. He did know. Rehab. Cold turkey. Pure determination. Nothing worked even when he wanted it to.

"But then you think, Oh, it won't be so bad. I can control it now." Crowley weaved their fingers together. "Or you'll meet those people who'll always look down at you, they don't think you'll ever come to shit, so screw them, right? Why not be the druggie scum they think you are? Why fight it?" He heard the young man swallow. "You do it because it feels good, and you're tired of fighting, and when you're high off your mind you just don't have to care anymore."

"You get it." It was sad, the relief in his voice. Crowley was well acquainted with misery, just not the same kind. But wasn't it all the same, in the end?

Crowley knew the time was right to say something uplifting, like how he could do better, how that life wasn't really what he wanted. But the young man beside him had heard that so many times before, and they were just useless words. If words really could fix problems, they wouldn't be where they were. Even coming from him. The strongest miracles were nothing against biology. Ever since humans discovered eating the right mushrooms could make their heads spin, it was burned right into their DNA. No angelic or demonic influence, just pure humanity.

A knock at the door made them both jump. "Kettle's on," Aziraphale's voice drifted through the door. Crowley waited until the angel moved away before glancing over. The shame was printed painfully on the other man's face. 

"He's alright," Crowley said with a shrug. "A real angel. He's not going to judge you."

"Isn't that what they all say?" The bitterness was back in his voice. Crowley wondered how many run-ins he'd had before.

"They're not like him. Really." Crowley squeezed his hand. "He's forgiven me for everything I've done, and I promise you, I've done far worse than anything you've managed."

The young man didn't look like he believed him, but Crowley hauled him to his feet anyway. He gave the young man a gentle push towards the sink, and as he began cleaning himself off, Crowley disposed of the sharp by stowing it in the toilet tank. At least to keep it out of the way until he could properly get rid of it.

With the most careful guiding hand at his back, Crowley left the bathroom and steered the young man towards the front of the shop. Sure enough, Aziraphale had the tea ready, the familiar scent filling the air like a welcome home. He smiled gently at the pair of them, which the other man avoided even as he took the offered cup. 

Crowley shared a look with the angel, and subtly shook his head when Aziraphale jerked his head towards the back room. Now was the time. Crowley could feel the shame resolving itself into regret. No better time than that.

"Here." Crowley pulled a card out of thin air. "Down the way, there's a recovery house with a room for you." The way the man's eyes flicked down and away wasn't positive. "It's not charity," Crowley snapped at him, grabbing a biscuit from the tin Aziraphale offered. "You don't have to go. No one's going to make you. You don't have to do a damn thing you don't want to." Aziraphale gave him a look, but Crowley plowed on. "Take it or leave it."

The young man kept staring at the card. Working it through, weighing his options. The steady slow building of resolve. Crowley could _feel_ Aziraphale chafing, wanting to jump in with his usual spiel. But that wasn't what the young man needed.

"Not like it'll make a difference," the young man muttered. Already setting himself back up for the fall. It was too much for Aziraphale. With one last look at Crowley, he leaned across the desk, meeting the young man's eyes.

"Whatever you decide," the angel said, voice so soft and gentle. The young man looked up, something fragile in his chest at the words. "Whatever you choose to do, just know that you don't deserve any of it." His hands rested on the table, and like he was being drawn in, the young man took them, eyes not leaving his face. "You can change, you can fight this. There's no such thing as a hopeless case." Aziraphale's eyes flicked up to Crowley. "Despite any efforts on your own part."

He could say it and get away with it. It was genuine coming from him. Crowley could feel it behind his words, lending his strength to someone who needed it. Someone who didn't even believe in himself.

That was that. The young man finished his tea and pulled away. He left the card on the table, and Crowley stared at it as he exited the building. He didn't turn around to watch which way the young man would go ‒ back out into the city, back to where he had come, or if he would turn and go towards recovery. He couldn't look, but Aziraphale was watching, and Crowley could read the answer on his face. 

~*~

Crowley lounged over the back of the sofa, critically squinting at the thermometer leaning against the windowsill. The temperature was all right for the moment, but he had noticed it was far warmer in the afternoon than was acceptable for the little succulents. True, they were made for such things, but he wasn’t looking to recreate desert conditions in the angel’s bookshop so something would have to change. He leaned over and twitched the shade down a touch, just to give the area a chance to cool down some.

“You ever think about putting solar in?” he asked over his shoulder.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, glancing up from his crossword.

“Solar,” said Crowley. “On the roof. You own the building, right?”

That was true, but only due to the most technical of technicalities. When Aziraphale had first started the shop, Crowley had been along to “witness” the signing of the lease, and he’d suggested, as a “joke”, that after one hundred years of profit for the shop Aziraphale should be allowed to purchase the building, or at least the part that he occupied. The original owner had laughed and agreed.

His descendants hadn't been laughing one hundred years later. Crowley had been present with Aziraphale again as the current building owner and his two lawyers had gone over the agreement with a fine tooth comb, trying to find some way out of the situation. He’d just sat back and grinned at their despair. 

Aziraphale glanced upwards, like he could actually see the roof through the upper floors. “Oh. I suppose. Do you think it would really make a difference?”

“Any little bit helps.” Crowley slumped back into his original position on the couch. “Sure Adam fixed most of everything when he came into his powers, but you know what humans are like. They’ll cock it up again, they can’t help themselves.” Frowning, he met Aziraphale’s gaze. "Getting off the grid would help. And I'm sure whatever money-grubbing corporation that owns the electric wouldn't appreciate it.”

Aziraphale, as usual, looked disproving of his outlook, glancing back down at the paper, a small considering look on his face. Crowley let him mull it over, already on his phone looking up contractors. He knew the answer.

Crowley took charge later in the week when the installers stopped by for a consultation. Aziraphale seemed happy to play the scatterbrained bookshop owner, so Crowley played long-suffering partner trying to modernize the place. He guided the visitors up to the roof, pointing out where the sun hit best through the taller building and where best to avoid the pigeon leavings.

While they were doing their measurements, he stood back, letting the sharp cool wind blow over his face and ruffle his hair. It would be nice to give the shop a few updates. Little minor things that even Aziraphale wouldn't complain about. He could bring a few of his larger plants over, maybe set up some chairs and an umbrella up on the roof. They could afford to get comfortable with what they had, instead of the lingering reminder in the back of their heads that their time on Earth was temporary. He could…he could get comfortable here.

"You know, you should change the bulbs you have in here," the head contractor mentioned as they descended down the rickety staircase. 

Crowley blinked at him, then considered the dim light overhead. "Right," he agreed. "Will these not work with the solar?"

"No, they will, but they're using up too much energy without the proper output. This place could use some brightening up." Crowley grinned thinly, already imagining Aziraphale's reaction to that. He preferred it dim, thank you very much.

That didn't stop Crowley from going out and buying replacement bulbs the next day, some fancy new energy-saving ones. Aziraphale watched from his desk as Crowley changed out the first, an uncertain look on his face. Which turned into a proper frown when the bulb blazed unnaturally to life.

"Really, dear‒" he started, but didn't get far. Crowley tapped at the bulb a few times, dimming the radiance to something more suited for the shop.

"Better, angel?" he asked, gracefully hopping down from the step stool. It was, he could already tell by the mollified look on his face. Crowley shot him a smug grin and moved on to the next.

He swapped out all the bulbs on the lower level, but hesitated at the foot of the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. It wasn't that it was off limits, per se, but he hadn't spent much time up there without Aziraphale. And for that matter, neither had Aziraphale, to his knowledge, but still…his private quarters. 

"You mind if I do the ones upstairs?" His throat felt far too dry.

Aziraphale glanced up distractedly. "Oh, yes, of course. As you do."

Well, then. Crowley ascended the steps carefully, knowing this was different than a quick jaunt to the roof. Aziraphale wouldn't dare stroll through Crowley's flat without him, he knew, even if the only trappings of a home were the plants in his atrium. It was just…a step neither had been willing to take.

The upper level was quite like the lower, covered in books, slightly more dusty. These books were the ones Aziraphale wouldn't dream of displaying or selling, and Crowley tried to be respectful and not pry. He did alright in the kitchen, and the second office, but hesitated again at the only closed door. The supposed bedroom. 

This was ridiculous, he acknowledged to himself. It wasn't as if the angel spent much time there, either sleeping or…other activities. Nothing he could possibly be disturbing upon. But…

But nothing. It was just a room. Crowley pushed through the door, and had a fight down a laugh at what he found. More books. Stacks up to the ceiling. Of course, no need to sleep, might as well use the room for more book storage. He shook his head and threaded his way through, trying to find the best way to the ceiling light without knocking anything over. This was quite the mix of books, from the austere hardcovers that populated most of the shop, to some cheap paperbacks and‒ he had to fight a smirk‒ trashy romance novels. Of course Aziraphale would read anything he could get his hands on.

There was a gap in the towers of books, and Crowley wove sneakily through, hoping to find somewhere to stand for a better vantage. Instead, he found something that froze him in place.

A bed could be explained away as "appearances". Even if it was never seen, never used, of course Aziraphale would have one, because humans always had one. But it would be something small, barely larger than a cot. Space efficient to make room for more books. Simple, no frills, maybe a tartan throw if Crowley allowed himself to imagine it. Nothing fancy.

Certainly not a large and comfortable-looking queen mattress in the middle of the room.

Crowley had to remind himself to breathe when his chest started hurting. It was just a bed, he told himself, awkwardly navigating around it to reach the overhead light. With only one side used, judging by the lumps and wrinkles in the bedspread. Perhaps Aziraphale liked to indulge in reading in bed on occasion. And the other side was untouched, open and empty as the other bedside table, because…because…

It really was hard to breathe. Crowley changed the two bedside lamps, very much not focusing on the pair of black and white throw pillows on their respective sides, and quickly fled the room. 

Out in the hallway, once the door was safely closed again, he leaned back against the wood and _breathed_. It was just a bed. Just something Aziraphale decided he needed. It was probably quite comfortable, soft and welcoming like everything else the angel came across. His bed.

Crowley forced back the ache in his chest and stormed back down the stairs. It really didn't mean anything.

~*~

Suburbs were really the work of humans, which was almost as bad as the work of the Devil. Crowley found himself driving around the block over and over, trying to find a spot that wouldn't lead to damage to the Bentley or spare him the ire of suburbanites. To make matters worse, Aziraphale was _late_. He was supposed to have picked up the angel from his book consultation fifteen minutes ago, but Aziraphale was a no-show. Probably caught up in whatever book he was assessing. 

Crowley finally found a park bordering the neighborhood and stopped there. He got out and stretched, staring down the street towards where he was supposed to pick up Aziraphale. How much of an upset it would cause if he barged into whatever abode he was in and dragged him out? Would it be worth the ensuing argument? Quite probably. 

As he crossed the street and headed down the street, Crowley's ears were assaulted with the delightful sound of children's laughter. Anyone who could find innocence and joy in such a sound was someone who had never known children. The laughter wasn't kind, like there was a joke that the person at the center wasn’t in on. Despite himself, Crowley found himself wandering closer, towards the source of the laughter. 

It became obvious once he peered over the fence into someone's back garden. The jokes were directed towards a kid squirming on the ground, half-under the house, making no effort at all to help him. Grimacing, Crowley let himself in and sauntered up behind the kids making all the noise. "Don't you lot have better things to do?" he barked in his best nanny voice.

The reaction was immediate. Crowley watched the group scramble away, and approached the form on the ground. “Any luck?” he asked casually.

“No!” The kid didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t talking to his original audience anymore. “I can see her, she’s back in the pipes, but I can’t reach her and she won’t come near!” The kid finally pulled away and looked up, seeming surprised to see an adult standing over him.

Crowley crouched down. "What's her name?"

"Princess Josephine." Grubby boy flattened himself back to the ground, and Crowley got to his knees to peer into the crawlspace with him. Back in the gloom, past some very impressive spiderwebs, he could barely see light reflecting off scales. 

"She's a snake?" That wasn't what he expected. 

"Yeah. I think she found the hot water pipe." Crowley could see the allure there. "But she can't stay out here, it's gonna get too cold and she won't survive." The mournfulness in his voice was oddly touching.

"Course not. Budge over." Crowley fully flattened himself to the ground, just like the good old days, and levered himself into the opening. His shirt and jacket were going to be a mess, but so be it.

"My mum says I'm not allowed in the crawlspace," the snake kid warned him.

"I'm not your mum. Or you." Stretching his hand into the void, Crowley forced a touch of hellfire into his fingers, heating the space enticingly. He didn't want to resort to a hissed order, but he was willing to go there if he needed to. Better than turning into a snake himself.

Thank Someone, he felt scales rub up under his fingertips. Crowley gently grabbing a handful of coils, triumphantly extracting Princess Josephine from the space. Out in the dim grey light, she turned out to be a ball python, gazing up at him lovingly. Crowley gave her a look, a stern reminder that she should know better, before passing her off to her delighted owner. "Here," he said, reaching under the house again for the rest of her length. "Let me guess, popped the tank lid?"

"Yeah," the kid agreed, happily stroking her scales. The affection between the two was obvious, and Crowley let himself feel a slight touch of a good deed well done. 

"Next time weigh it down. Use a dictionary, or your mum's best china." Had to balance out the good somehow. With the kid's thanks, and a quick wink at Josephine, Crowley let himself out of the garden, only to turn the corner and almost run right into Aziraphale. 

"There you are!" He didn't sound angry, of course not. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."

"Got delayed," Crowley shrugged it off. "We still have time for tea."  
Aziraphale bit his lip like he was fighting back a smile. One hand reached out and gently swept some dirt away from Crowley's shirt. "Of course," he agreed. "We have lots of time for everything, these days."

Crowley didn't answer. He just fell into step beside the angel, banishing the remaining soil on his clothing, while quietly wondering just what he meant by that.

~*~

"_Why_‒" Crowley had to stop himself from saying something blasphemous or blessed. "What is your problem?" he hissed instead, prodding at the sponge. It was nowhere near the top of the pan. "I followed all the instructions, why are you like this?"

This was stupid. What had he been thinking? It had seemed so simple, the blog he had found it on declared it the easiest recipe in the world, yet somehow his cake looked like something he should clean the floor with. Crowley scowled at it, and the rest of the ingredients scattered across his counters. Lies, all of them. This was impossible. 

Crowley binned the ruined cake, not even bothering to taste it. If it was anything like the last two batches, it would be terrible. Not fit for anyone to eat.

He flopped face first onto his rigid sofa with a huff, mood sourer than the lemons that were supposed to flavor the cake. Was this some long-lasting aftereffect of Falling? Not being able to create anything _good_? That would actually make sense, except it wasn't even for _him_. He didn't give a damn how it tasted, he wouldn't be the one eating it.

As if the flat could pick up his mood, the TV switched itself on, and of course there was some cooking show on. Crowley watched with one eye as the perky cook moved around the set, going through all the motions while also giving instructions. It wasn't fair, they made it all look so easy. Crowley snarled, hearing an answering shiver from the plants in the other room. No doubt hoping he wouldn't go inflict his anger upon them.

"The thing to remember," the lady on the screen helpfully narrated, "is that cooking is an act of love. What you put in, you get out of your bake. If you're cooking for someone else, you want it to be nothing less than your greatest, so you really want them to taste the love."

Crowley frowned into the cushions. "Bit on the nose there, aren't you?" he asked the universe in general. There was no answer. Crowley sighed. He could take the hint. 

Levering himself off the sofa, he stalked back into the kitchen, regarding the assembled ingredients. "Happy thoughts," he told himself. Not thinking about failure, not thinking about not living up to centuries of refined desserts. Just something _good_.

"Right." He tried to sound positive. "You're all going to come together, and it's going to be delicious." He peered at the tablet screen again, and pulled a mixing bowl towards himself, dumping in the butter and only vaguely threatening with a fork. "You're going to be fed to an actual angel, so you'll have to be up to snuff." He began to furiously beat the butter, then slowed and tried to be more gentle. "And I need you to taste good‒" the sugar followed with a silken whisper‒ "so that Aziraphale…so he'll enjoy it. Right." He stopped to double check how many eggs he needed. It had seemed like too many the first time, but he knew better now. "No pressure," he hissed.

He stayed crouched in front of the over for the whole baking duration, reading off positive affirmations from his phone. Whether that worked or not was anyone's guess, but the smells were certainly better than they'd been before. The sides were a little crispy, he noticed when he pulled it out, but the center wasn't sunken in again, and there was nothing to indicate that it wasn't going to taste good.

He let it cool while he whipped up the icing, then let it drizzle over the warm sponge. It certainly looked the way it did in all the pictures. "Please be good," he asked again, even though it was beyond the point of making a difference. "For Aziraphale's sake, please be good."

Once the tin was cool enough for a normal human to touch, he carried it out to the Bentley. He took a less breakneck route through the city, one eye on the tin to make sure it didn't go flying out of the seat. That would really be the cherry on top of the disasters of the day. 

The shop was actually open when he pulled up. Only a few customers were scattered about, having the long-suffering look of regulars about them. Aziraphale was ignoring them as well, but perked up when he saw Crowley. 

"Hello, dear," he greeted, before he narrowed in on the cake. "What have you got there?"

"Just a lemon drizzle cake," Crowley said with a shrug, sliding the tin onto the counter. "Thought I'd try my hand at baking, since you said I needed a hobby and all." His heart seemed to have lodged himself in his threat, clenching tightly at the brightness in Aziraphale's eyes as he looked up in delight.

"You made this?" he asked softly.

"For better or worse, yes." Crowley bypassed the counter, heading towards the hob to put the kettle on. "Don't go singing its praises until you try‒"

Whatever else he was going to say was abruptly cut off. Aziraphake had dashed out from his place behind the counter, surged into Crowley's space and wrapped his arms tightly around his middle. Crowley froze, one arm pinned, shock rocketing through his system at the touch. He could… _feel_. 

The embrace lasted for a small eternity. Crowley couldn't focus on anything, nothing but way the arms felt so right to be in, the breathless feelings and growing heat surrounding him. So much joy he could barely catch his breath. 

"It's just cake, angel," he finally said softly.

"I know, dear." Aziraphale's voice was muffled against his shoulder. "But thank you. I really very much appreciate it."

That was it, his throat closed up for good, before he could say anything else. Probably for the best. Aziraphale eventually freed him after a small eternity, never one to let a cake be ignored for long. Crowley put the kettle on, each movement automatic and thoughtless, while the rest of him _burned_ with the memory of the hug.

~*~

"What's that?"

Crowley looked up from his phone, finding a small child standing next to the couch, pointing at his head. "That's a snake," he answered. 

"Why do you have a snake on your face?" Her eyes were wide, but determined to get her answer. Crowley grinned. 

"Because I like snakes."

The girls eyes lit up. "I like stars! Is that why I've got stars on my face?" She pointed towards her nose, where her darker freckles barely stood out from her skin.

"Exactly," Crowley agreed. "That's how these things work." Encouraged, the girl scrambled onto the sofa, and he courteously moved his feet for her. "Why do you like stars so much?"

"Cause they're pretty. And they're so big and far away, and they say you can't ever count high enough to count them all. But I'm gonna." Maybe no human could ever count them all, but Crowley admired her spirit. "I'm gonna go see them one day."

"I believe it." From the corner of his eye he saw another woman, presumably space girl's mother, watching from further down the shelves. "Did you know there's parts of the stars everywhere?"

"There is?" She was brimming with curiosity, craving the knowledge, not dimmed at all yet by the realities of life. Crowley tried to put an encouraging look on his face. 

"When the stars were born, they used all the building blocks that make up the universe in them. And when those stars went out, those bits of the universe flew off and made new things."

"That's called a supernova," she told him.

"That's right. So you've got bits of very old stars in you." He remembered…it had been so easy, as easy as existing, drawing pieces of creation out of the void. It had felt so right. Making his mark in a universe barely old enough to function. 

And then he had been forced to watch from afar as they began to go out.

Space girl was bouncing with excitement, checking the backs of her hands like she could see the bits of stars there. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw her mother finally coming to collect her. "So you keep trying to get to the stars. Keep trying to get up there."

"I will!" she swore. And she would. No matter how discouraging it would be, Crowley could feel the love of the stars burning deep in her mind. It wasn't going to be let go lightly.

"You really seemed to communicate well with her," Aziraphale remarked after the girl and her mother left. Crowley shrugged as the angel idly strolled over.

"Shared interests. Nothing more." The fond sappy look on the angel's face didn't budge. "She's going to be in for it once she learns how much math is involved," Crowley stubbornly pointed out.

Aziraphale tsk-ed. "It made her happy, and you know it."

Before Crowley could snap something back, Aziraphale reached his side and swooped down. Crowley felt the soft brush of lips against his forehead, just for a second, and the shock of the accompanying feeling surged through him like lightning. 

Aziraphale pulled away, smiling like he hadn't just ignited an inferno in Crowley's chest. "I'm going to run out and pick us up something nice for lunch. Mind the shop?"

"Arglflgl."

"Thank you, dear."

~*~

"This has to be Adam's doing." Crowley watched the big fat flakes fall from the sky. They weren't piling up yet, but they were relentless. Like they were living in a snowglobe.

"It’s lovely," Aziraphale insisted from where he was hunched over a trunk tucked in the corner. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"It's going to freeze and all of London will be crashing into itself." There was no way in any plane of existence that he would drive the Bentley in those conditions. It was safe and snug in his carpark, and he'd suffered through an especially frigid walk over to the bookshop. Why had they decided to stay in England anyway, all those years ago, and not go somewhere warm? Somewhere in the past the reason had seemed obvious, but now he was questioning his younger self's decision. 

Aziraphale finally extracted himself from the trunk and walked over, arms full of knit. "It's never as bad as all that," he insisted. "Take your pick, dear," he said, offering them out.

Crowley eyed the garish yarn. "Why would I do that?" It was a perfectly sensible question, but the look Aziraphale gave him said it would not do.

"You really need to bundle up out there." He eyed Crowley's perfectly sensible black pea coat, and extracted a dark red length from the pile. "Don't want you getting frostbite on those perfect cheekbones. Then where would you be?"

"With frostbitten cheekbones." Crowley allowed the angel to wrap the scarf around his neck, layering it up so it covered the bottom half of his face. His breath fogged up his glasses, so he stopped. "I'm not wearing a hat," he insisted. Aziraphale pursed his lips, but tugged the scarf up further to cover his ears. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but there was no way to get rid of the thing without Aziraphale noticing.

He hated to admit it, but he was happy to have the scarf once they stepped out of the shop, and the biting wind blew in their faces. Aziraphale made a tutting noise in the direction of his fingerless gloves and obligingly wrapped his fingers around Crowley's. Before he could even react, the angel drew them into his own pocket, for extra good measure. Crowley was very happy the scarf was covering his face then.

London was actually quieter with the snowfall, as most people with sense stayed inside, and the people without chose to be quiet as they made their way to the shop for the all-important bag of crisps. It was almost peaceful, almost nice, or maybe it was just the angel radiating his happiness. Crowley could feel it was stronger that usual, but he was willing to chalk it up to the hand contact amplifying the feeling.

"Do you have any plans after this?" Aziraphale eventually asked, breath visible in the air. Crowley shook his head, debating his options. 

"My guess is most places will use this as an excuse to close down early." He couldn't blame them. "Unless you're thinking something in particular‒"

"No, nothing specific." In his pocket, he squeezed the fingers caught in his grasp. Crowley almost slipped in surprise. "You're welcome to warm up back at the bookshop, stay the night if you need to." The offer was thrown out almost carelessly. 

What was happening? Aziraphale never offered ‒ when it happened, it just happened and neither brought it up. He also never reached out and took his hand like this, and yet…Crowley was about to ask what had gotten into him before he saw the way Aziraphale's eyes lit up. "I could make up a nice hot toddy!"

Yep, there was his usual angel. Crowley found himself smiling for no reason. "I'd like that," he agreed, feeling the spike of happiness from the other. Nothing to dwell on. The grin turned somewhat evil when a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps we can crack open a nice‒” he leaned closer. “Mer-lot.”

The reaction was immediate and exactly what he hoped for. “Crowley _please_!” Aziraphale whined, giving him a pained look. Crowley roared with laughter, throwing his head back and nearly stumbling off the curb, only to be tugged back by Aziraphale's hand. “You really must stop that!”

“Never!” Crowley crackled. Any chance he had to ruffle the angel's feathers never failed to please that dark little corner of his heart. “That’s the one wile you can never thwart. You can never make me appreciate wine.”

Aziraphale’s unhappy sigh agreed with him. “Six thousand years," he mused. "I really can’t do much more to help you refine your palate.”

“You are fighting years of some rotten-awful alcohol I’ve drunk.” That was the first time he really felt he had done the right thing, once the humans had learned how to ferment and indulge. Their first efforts had left something to desire, but he had always been all for their creations. He really didn’t care about the flavor or the prestigiousness of whatever he was drinking ‒ he was happy to leave that to Aziraphale. “You know that just means there’s more for you,” he pointed out slyly.

“Right.” Aziraphale sounded lost in thought, eyes pinned to the ground as he strolled. Like a proper gentleman, Crowley used his grip to steer him out of the way of an approaching lamppost. “Thank you, dear. I was just thinking. It has been some time since we’ve been to France, right?”

“Um, yes.” How could he forget? Being at the right place, at the right time, to do something right for once and being rewarded with crepes and Aziraphale at his finest and stuffiest. Good times.

“I’ve heard they have rather good wine tours over there.” The longing in his voice was evident. “We could pop over, indulge a bit. Make a holiday out of it.”

Oh that was…something. Crowley allowed himself to imagine it, the two of them at a sunny winery, drinking and enjoying themselves with no ulterior task to focus on. An actual good time to be had. And…Romantic. Somewhat literally.

"Swing through Italy, get a chance to compare the two," he suggested. Sunny Italy, where he'd done some of his most influential work. He would like to go back. And with Aziraphale at his side, appreciating the art, even if not the means they were created through. 

"Oh yes." Aziraphale squeezed his hand, practically vibrating in delight. "I haven't been there since the Crusades. It would be lovely to visit again, for old time's sake."

It would be. Crowley abruptly realized what he was doing‒ effectively, planning a world-trotting vacation with his closest companion. To destinations that held such history for them, to get no doubt drunk and in the mood to indulge some familiarity and closeness. And that…could lead to other places. Places and things he couldn't think about. "Italy really lost its charm for me once togas went out of style."

Aziraphale sent him an impish grin. "My dear, if anyone could bring the toga back, it would be you."

Crowley grinned, but his head abruptly jerked up when he felt a steady stream of terror coming towards them. A young woman rounded the corner, walking as quickly as she could on too-high heels. Her face was stricken as she checked over her shoulder, even as she sped up to reach them. He knew why, instantly, when the man following her also turned the corner. He reeked of a terribly specific kind of lust.

Wordlessly, he and Aziraphale separated. Aziraphale intercepted the young woman, reaching out a protective arm and turning with her to head down the street. Crowley kept going, stalking towards the pervert, who took too long to realize the gig was up. He turned, nearly tripping over his feet, but Crowley had already seized him by the collar.

"Oh, no you don't." A heavy yank and he sent the man stumbling down an alleyway. Crowley followed close behind, pinning him to the wall. "What's the matter?" he hissed, feeling the first tricklings of fear from him. "I thought you _**liked this**_."

The fear became full blown terror as Crowley forced his way in, eyes blazing, making him feel _everything_. All the terror of his victims, the helplessness, the sulfur-tinted knowledge of what waited on the other side. The cold hard dread of knowing he couldn't get away, couldn't fight back, and there was not a damn thing standing between Crowley and him. No way out.  
If Crowley were anything like him, he'd enjoy that terror. 

Instead, he gave him another heavy slam into the wall. "You try _this_ again," he warned, "or even _think_ about your sick little game‒" a certain extremity was trying to make itself scarce under this focus‒ "and I'll know. And I'll come hunt you down in the night, and if you think I'm angry now…" he let his glasses slip, really let the scum see what he was dealing with. "You won't want to see me then."

It was his choice, Crowley told himself as the man stumbled away, trailing fear and a lingering aroma. Billions of men didn't act like he did, it was entirely up to him to not act the same way. Easy as anything.

He found Aziraphale and the young woman a few streets away, sitting on a bench that normally had spikes lining the seats. The angel's coat was wrapped around her shoulders, but even that comfort wasn't enough to drive the fear from her eyes.

"Her phone is dead," Aziraphale informed him as Crowley strode up. "Could you‒"

"Yep, on it." He already had his phone in hand, a small miracle ensuring the ride he was hailing was driven by a woman. She would get her home safely.

"You didn't‒" Aziraphale hesitated, censuring himself in front of an already petrified human. "You didn't _do_ anything, did you?"

"Nothing he didn't deserve." He deserved a great deal more, but that would come later. Aziraphale still managed to look disproving, but that was standard. "Would you have rather have let me escort the nice young lady away, and you deal with the pervert?" The angel's face said it all. He always preferred Crowley do the dirty work. He was better at it.

"I'm sorry," the young woman broke in, with a barely concealed sob. "You shouldn't have to go through this for me, I shouldn't have‒"

"Stop," Crowley cut her off. At the same time Aziraphale spoke up as well.

"You have done nothing wrong." His tone made it clear there was no argument to be had. "Any blame is upon that man. His choices, his actions. Not yours."

Crowley could sense the truth in his words, and so could the girl. Her panic eased like the mist of their breath in the cold air, just in time for the quickest rideshare driver in the city to arrive. Crowley half-suspected the driver was actually the angel in disguise, except Aziraphale was still standing there, and the driver just seemed to be a very friendly over-enthusiastic human woman. 

Despite the situation, Crowley had to fight a smile at Aziraphale's bemusement, the slight wondering confusion at the realization that he wasn't the only good soul in the city. After what they had felt earlier, it really was a balm, exactly what the young woman needed. A better end to her night.

They watched the car drive away, leaving them behind in the snow and the silence. "Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly.

"Don't go thanking me just because I didn't rip that guy's dick off." Harsh, perhaps, but the look Aziraphale gave him still had another meaning under it.

"That was from her, my dear, not from me." Aziraphale's hand found his again, and squeezed. Crowley suddenly could feel it, the young woman's relief and gratefulness. He almost staggered to his knees. "You deserve some credit," Aziraphale said, almost too kindly. Crowley couldn't even think of what to say, just allowing himself to be towed away. If that was what it felt like…well, he understood why Aziraphale was the way he was.

~*~

“You know I have a perfectly nice flat of my own,” Crowley pointed out. “One with a working heater. And a rather excellent selection of wines.”

“I’m aware of that, yes.” Aziraphale sounded testy. That was understandable, being elbow deep into a heater that was nearly as old as they themselves were, trying to discern what the problem was. Crowley wrapped his arms around his middle, padded with a rather lumpy jumper he nicked off Aziraphale’s chair, and thought about not continuing the conversation.

“There’s no _real_ reason to be hanging around the shop on a day like today,” he hinted. A day where it was so bitterly cold, and the temperamental heater was on the fritz again, and it was simply unpleasant to sit around and watch Aziraphale try to fix the issue. He wasn’t going to outright invite the angel to come over, but the hints didn’t seem to be landing. “Be nice to have a break. Warm up a bit.”

Aziraphale bit back a noise that sounded almost like pain, pulling his hand back and rubbing at the knuckle. “Yes, Crowley, I know,” he said bitterly, nearly glaring over at him. “I’m sure it’d be _quite_ lovely at your flat with not a care in the world. I’d love to take you up on your rather obvious invitation, however _someone_ has to be here to keep things from going awry. So I’d rather not have you lurking about making unhelpful observations, my dear.”

Crowley fought a smile. Testy. Edging into the small cupboard, he captured the angel’s hand, quicky brushing his lips over the injured knuckle. “You’re just grumpy because you can’t fathom how modern machines work,” he accused. “Remember when it was all so easy to just light a fire and be warm?”

Aziraphale sighed. Speaking of warm, his hand was still in Crowley’s and was very soft and warm. Crowley had to fight the urge to cling when Aziraphale drew it back. “It is...frustrating,” he admitted. “And I’m sure you’d be no help at all‒”

“Not a chance, angel.” Knowing the vague specifics of his car’s internal combustion engine enough to keep it running was one thing ‒ fixing an ancient crumbling heater was quite another. “I do know how to light a good fire.”

Aziraphale sighed again and nodded, moving back to allow Crowley more room to leave. Making his way to the back room, he thought the chimney back into working order, full of wood ready to light. Crowley liked to add the final touch personally, wadding up some old newspapers and touching a match to them to get the fire started. In no time the flames were blazing, filling the room with delicious warmth.

Crowley dragged the sofa forward, almost silent with the soft padded things under the legs, and reclined back on the cushions, staring into the warm red flames. He could already feel the warmth against his cheeks, spreading deliciously through the rest of his body. Crowley sighed and leaned his head back, lazily removing his glasses and closing his eyes. The chill was slowly melting from his body, leaving him slumped comfortably against the worn cushions. He could stay there for the rest of eternity.

A warm mug was pressed into his outer hand. Crowley automatically grasped it, and felt the cushion to his side dip with the weight of the angel as he sat down. Aziraphale primly curled his feet up, tucking his stockinged feet against Crowley's thigh. Before he could even comment, Aziraphale had the blanket off the back of the couch and around their shoulders, cocooning them in warmth and the familiar wooly smell.

"This is nice, isn't it?" the angel asked, face the picture of innocence. As if he hadn't just breached their closeness, _again_, in a way that forced Crowley to wonder if he was really missing something. He couldn't answer. It was nearly too much to consider. 

Crowley took a sip to cover his confusion, feeling the warm chocolate and a hint of liquor linger in his throat. Aziraphale certainly didn't seem to mind not getting an answer, watching the flames with a soft smile. The flames illuminated his hair, like the halo he must surely still have. The kind of beauty most artist spent their lives trying to capture. And even then it would pale in comparison to the real thing.

He should go. Finish his cocoa and leave, go back to his own cold, sparse flat. Lose that lingering bit of warmth in his chest. It didn't belong there. He didn't belong there.

The heat radiated through his core, combating the cold settled in his limbs. Crowley closed his eyes again, basking in the heat and the… companionship. It was so nice, so calming. The edge of the blanket smooth against his cheek, soft and familiar, the crackle of the fire, the gentle rhythm of Aziraphale's breaths…

The last thing he was distantly aware of was an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer as the mug slipped from his fingers.

~*~

Crowley woke slowly, feeling like he was on a perfect beach somewhere. He was _warm_, so delightfully warm, comfortably pillowed against something soft and firm and also warm, a delightful embrace he wanted to sink deeper into, let the calm pull him back down, endlessly into deeper sleep.

Wait.

Embrace. 

Oh.

Oh no.

Crowley jolted awake, but stayed frozen where he was, resting against Aziraphale's side. Oh _Somebody_, how did he end up there? His head was tucked up under Aziraphale's bloody chin, like they were a pair of painted lovers. The soft movements of Aziraphale's chest caused his hand to rise and fall with the movement where it was laying on his chest, clutching gently like a child. And the angel's hands were positioned no less intimately. Crowley could feel one across his lower back, just above his waistband, and the other was cupping the back of his neck. And oh _no_, that was a thigh between his, their legs were twined together and he couldn't get away if he wanted to.

_He really didn't want to._

The alarm trying to work it's way into control was stoppered by the overwhelming sense of _calm_ he was feeling. It really was like lying on the beach at the beginning of the world, no sound but the beating of waves against the shore, nothing to distract from the peacefulness running rampant. It was so easy to give in, _too_ easy. If he wasn't careful he would fall asleep again, still in Aziraphale's embrace. And would that really be so bad? Then at least he could have the angel decide best how to react to the situation. 

There was more, besides the peaceful calm radiating from the angel. He must not be aware of how he was projecting in his sleep, how his emotions were running unchecked. Crowley could almost taste a giddy sort of feeling, something he'd only felt in certain clubs and dark corners in the city, boys and girls and everyone thing in between finding one another and realizing they weren't alone. Welcomed, and accepted. Finally free to be what they really were.

But even that was nothing compared to what else he could feel. Something so intense, nearly overwhelming, impossible to hide from, stealing his breath with its strength. He'd felt…touches of it before, gentle brushing of feeling across his soul, impossibly soft and accompanied by an equally soft smile. Nothing like this. Not something he deserved to ever feel again.

There was no chance Aziraphale was awake. No way he could know how much he was inflicting on Crowley. 

That was alright, Crowley told himself, pressing closer despite what his thoughts were saying. He knew he would ache without it, once the moment was past. But he'd lost the feeling before, long ago, and survived. He could bear it.

A sudden pounding at the door sent his heart lurching into his throat. He tried to pull away but Aziraphale's hands suddenly weren't resting gently, they were holding him firmly, keeping him in place. "We're not open," Aziraphale said in a firm whisper, his words stirring Crowley's hair. "We're not open, and you don't want to come in anyway. It's far too cold, you'd much rather be at that nice coffee place down the way, go on, hurry up now. On your way."

Crowley had no doubt whoever was outside had swiftly followed those orders. But the moment was past, and the panic came rushing back. Aziraphale was awake. There was no denying it now, no way to hide. He was awake and his hands were soft again, the fingers on Crowley's head gently stroking through his hair. Crowley closed his eyes and braced for the moment where everything would go back to normal, when everything he was feeling would be snatched away all over again. It would happen. He knew it would.

It wasn't stopping. He could still feel the calm trying to drag him back down, the tantalizing acceptance, the…other thing that was trying to suffocate him, turn his heart inside out and send his intestines scurrying towards the exit. Aziraphale wasn't letting go. _He wasn't letting go._ Crowley bared his teeth, fighting the urge to tear himself away. He couldn't leave, couldn't move because Aziraphale wasn't letting go, wasn't stopping, wasn't letting him make his escape. He could still feel _everything_. Oh _Someone_ help.

"Crowley." He froze at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. "Please be still."

How could he be calm when he was _feeling_ so much? How could Aziraphale still be holding him, filling the aching void somewhere in his middle, without pulling away? "You have to let me up," he mumbled, speaking his words into Aziraphale's shoulder, like maybe he wouldn't hear him that way. Like he could pretend, and stay in the shelter of his arms where he didn't belong, just for a little while longer.

"No, I don't think I will." What was he _playing_ at? Crowley was finding it hard to breathe but he couldn't stop, body betraying him in a new way in response to the…_thing_ he was feeling.

"You can't‒" he swallowed, fighting the feeling that was choking him. "Angel, you have to stop, you don't know what you're doing."

"I'm trying to keep you from working yourself into a tizzy." Something about the evenness of his voice ‒ and _tizzy?_ ‒ finally made Crowley move, just enough to lift his head from the comfortable hollow it had found for itself. And _oh_, the look on Aziraphale's face as he stared down at him, fingers stilling their motions but not pulling away from his hair. That look in his eye made Crowley's breath catch, frozen in place like prey, not daring to move in case he struck. There was so much of _that_ in his eyes he could barely stand it. 

"Aziraphale," he whispered, and couldn't say anything else. Aziraphale's eyes turned worried‒ that one he knew, he was very familiar with that look‒ and his hand slid around to cup his jaw. Crowley fought a groan as those soft fingers stroked over the clenched muscles. It really was too much, if he wasn't careful he was going to have a…a reaction. 

"Do you not like this?" Aziraphale sounded so _concerned_ when he didn't have to be. "I thought you were enjoying it. I mean, I know for a fact that you enjoy sleeping, and being around me, I thought, might as well combine the two and it wouldn't be an issue. But I knew you'd likely wake up in a bit of a state so I thought I'd try to mitigate that somewhat‒" he swallowed‒ "but clearly that hasn't worked. So. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable."

Crowley squinted and tried to sort everything out in his head. "You were…trying to make sure I didn't wake up‒ _you're doing this on purpose_?"

"Not quite on purpose, but…" Aziraphale screwed up his face, like he was choosing his words carefully. "I just thought it'd feel better this way."

"What are you talking about?" Not _that_, it couldn't be _that_, surely.

"I felt it, you know, how you felt when you fell asleep against my shoulder." Aziraphale's smile was so painfully soft. "Every time you did something nice for me." A soft chuckle lightened his tone. "Every time I snuck in some affection towards you. I know how happy it makes you feel, my dear."

Wait. Was that what they were talking about? "You're…forcibly embracing me…" Crowley started hesitantly, "because you think being cuddled makes me _happy_?"

"Of course." _Of course._ Crowley wanted to scream. That was so perfectly his angel, to think only about making Crowley happy, never mind all the other things he was making him feel. He really had no idea‒ "I just want you to be happy, my dear." The hand returned to his hair, stroking softly. "I feel I've gotten fairly good at it, you know, learning what you like. Even," his voice dropped like it was a shameful secret, "how much you like doing helpful things for humans, and for me, for no benefit to you at all."

Oh yes, _that_ was the secret he was supposed to be hiding. Crowley tucked his head down, keeping his burning face hidden. "Big deal. The big scary demon likes being nice sometimes," he grumbled into his shoulder. He could feel the surge in Aziraphale's emotions, how positively _chuffed_ he was about that confession. "You don't have to go quite so overboard with how happy _you_ are. I can do without so much…muchness."

"My dear." It sounded like Aziraphale was trying to fight down laughter. His fingers gently tugged his hair. Crowley focused on that, then focused harder on what _exactly_ he was feeling.

Oh. It wasn't all _just_ coming from the angel.

Crowley couldn’t keep his body from reacting, recoiling away from the soft touches. He was nearly on his feet before Aziraphale's hands snatched him back, pulling him irresistibly back down. No no no this wasn't happening, Aziraphale was guiding him back to that comfortable space where he didn't belong, he couldn't stay, not with so many _feelings_ happening that he couldn't fight.

“Crowley, don’t,” Aziraphale murmured, voice soft but demanding. His body obeyed on instinct, letting itself be pulled back down. "I know, my dear, I know. Surely you must know how I feel by now." 

How could he miss it? It felt like his insides were being lightly broiled. "How..?" he hissed, fighting the urge to go all limbless and slither away. His thoughts were scrambling, fighting down the panic of '_he knows he knows he knows how you feel he feels it he feels it too_' “What‒ when?”

"I thought we were quite past the point of not acknowledging it,” Aziraphale said sternly. “You’re hardly subtle, my dear.”

Hardly subtle. Internally he flailed, trying to reconcile six thousand years of what he'd been hiding with the knowledge that Aziraphale had already had him figured out. Outwardly, he struggled to get the words out of his mouth. "Like you're one to talk," he grumbled, averting his eyes. The hug, the kiss against his forehead, the hand-holding and…oh, those had been dates, hadn't they? Aziraphale hadn't needed to be subtle because Crowley was so damned _thick_.

"I tried to make it easier for you to take, my love. I knew if I moved too fast, you would have slithered off for another century-long nap." Aziraphale's voice was still soft, even though he spoke the truth. “I thought if I made you happy, you would realize you didn’t have to hold yourself back anymore. You could stop hiding, and so could I." His sigh was soft with melancholy. "I've been wanting to hold you like this for longer than I'd care to admit."

Oh _Someone_. "Why now? Crowley asked, voice rasping in his throat. The angel's embrace didn't loosen, as if he knew Crowley was just asking so he'd have an excuse to pull away. 

"You weren't holding back in your sleep." Why did he sound like _that_? "I haven't felt your love so strongly before." Aziraphale's other hand came up to cup his cheek, tilting his head up and holding him in place, so the angel could lean in and do something…ineffable. 

Crowley felt _everything_ in the angel's kiss. All his fear, all his stubbornness and longing, his desire to make things right and keep them that way. Crowley could feel his own emotions reacting in much the same way his body did, surging in closer to take, to claim, and be claimed in return. Like Aziraphale was enclosing him in his wings, a soft prison he could never escape. And never wanted to. 

Aziraphale had tears on his face when Crowley finally pulled himself back. He didn't know who they had come from. "Please," the angel whispered, soft hands holding him so firmly. "You don't have to hide it anymore. Not from me."

Crowley nodded as he sunk back down. Now he knew. They were all they had, and there was no point in holding himself back. He could have it all.

It felt so easy. Like letting go and falling.


End file.
